Sotto Voce
by mimosa eyes
Summary: Spitfire Insecurity coda. Also handles themes from Misplaced and Coldhearted. Fluff and character studies. "Just tell me one thing," he said, agonizingly slowly. "Everything I said, on the Bioship. Did that mean... anything, to you?"


'**Sotto voce': 'in a low, soft voice so as not to be overheard'.**

* * *

"Artemis."

And she held her breath, ready and _wanting_ to say anything, say _everything_ to erase that look of disappointment, almost of _betrayal, _on his face. Ready to admit that _yeah, Sportsmaster is my father, Cheshire's my sister and I just couldn't tell you because I thought you'd never trust me. And maybe now you won't anyway, but I have to _try_, because I think I—_

"Are you that freaked out about Arrow joining the team you had to prove yourself by bringing down the bad guys solo?" Wally's face was uncharacteristically solemn. "Please, tell me I'm wrong."

But Artemis didn't speak a word, letting Wally's accusatory voice wash right over her. "Well, nice going. What you proved is that you're insecure and selfish.

"Keep the sai." The harsh metallic clang did little to shake her gaze from its steady hold on the ground at her feet. Absently she noted Wally turning to take her tracer from Red Arrow. "_This_ is the right souvenir for the mission."

Because he needed to remember that previously unreachable part of her, the insecurity she'd been covering up all along. Because he needed to have something real, concrete, to remind himself of every word he'd said to her, every word he'd _say _to her, so he'd never have to see her this unsure of herself again.

Because like it or not, Wally needed Artemis to feel safe. Secure. And her desperation to prove herself, her apparent need to feel, well, needed? It made his blood boil. As in _how _dare_ you ever think you weren't good enough; how dare you measure your self-worth by what people say about you?_

The speedster strode away, the tracer cold and hard in his hand.

Long after the rest of the team had dispersed, and Red Arrow's looming threat seemed about to fade from memory, Artemis kneeled to gingerly pick up her sister's sai.

She was alone in the Cave's cavernous main room. The weapon a familiar weight and shape and feel in her hands. Minor aches and pains finally coming to her attention at the end of an adrenaline-filled day. It was times like these that the uncomfortable stickiness of her cowl, the sheer burden of her quiver, really stood out.

Artemis fingered the sai, turning it this way and that as if deliberating it. Clumsy, at first, she twirled the weapon in one hand, managing two revolutions before it squirmed out of her grasp. _Miss Butterfingers, _she remembered Jade teasing her. Before the sai could clatter against the ground she snatched it deftly from the air. _Jade would be flipping blades through the air, lazily juggling them. And Dad would call out. _

"_And again," he'd say,"and keep the spins tight." _She slipped off her gloves, and this time the sai moved gracefully between her slender fingers. _"You're the one in control. Remember that." _

In her mind's eye, Lawrence Crock was clapping her elder sister on the shoulder. Ready to move her from weapon manipulation drills to hand-to-hand combat. _"Very good, Jade. Good." _And then a cursory glance in her direction, as the weapon in question picked the worst possible moment to misbehave. Sometimes the sharpened edge — because their parents didn't keep non-functional blades — would slice open her finger. _And Dad would call out. "Artemis..." he'd say. "Keep working on it."_

The scars were still there now, faint lines crisscrossing her hands. Artemis had come to ignore the physical evidence of her family background the same way she hid its existence from the team — by pulling on gloves and putting on disguises. The thought alone left a momentary lapse in her concentration, and the sai slipped from her fingers. A slash of white-hot pain seared her palm even as the weapon clanged against the floor.

"Damn," the archer swore. Blood welled up from the fresh cut. _Miss Butterfingers, alright._

"Artemis?" _Not now, Kid Bipolar. _She looked sharply up. Wally, in civvies now, was rubbing the back of his neck in a way that seemed almost sheepish. And staring at his feet. Quickly, she moved her bleeding hand behind her back.

"You're... still here." From his tone it was nigh impossible to tell if he was disappointed or relieved at this observation.

"I — I thought you weren't talking to me." Artemis bent to pick up the sai, and Wally frowned noticing how she'd inexplicably used her left hand. In an instant his analytical mind took in the gloves discarded to one side, the strangely solemn tension in her visage. "I just — wanted to clear things up," he said, slowly. "I'm not... mad at you, or whatever," he finished, rather lamely.

Under normal circumstances she would demand (rhetorically, of course, with an extra side of irritating) to know if he was _bipolar, or what? _

Given that these weren't normal circumstances, she would just have to force herself to the words.

"Are you, like, bipolar or something?" Praying that he hadn't seen her semi-expertly handling an enemy's weapon. Hoping against hope she'd manage to get past him without him noticing her wound. Artemis walked briskly towards the speedster, surreptitiously holding her gloves over the sai. If there was blood on the metal... _Real smooth, Artemis. Make the guy think you're selfish and insecure, before idiotically slicing your hand open playing with a dangerous blade. _

She stopped just before him and put a hand to her hip. Wally was leaning casually against the wall, cocking his head to one side in an almost puppy dog-like fashion. "What've you been doing, this whole time?"

Artemis stepped to the right; he immediately followed, blocking her way to the hallway he was standing in. "Why does it matter?" she countered, quickly feinting to the left before dodging right again. But her tormentor was, after all, a speedster. Wally's grin grew as she narrowed her eyes at him.

Then, before she could tell him to _butt off_, he reached down and grabbed her injured hand, tugging it surprisingly gently up to eye level. And there was probably some huge misreading of the whole situation but she couldn't be bothered to correct it. Because he was _holding her hand_ and pulling her along down the hallway. Because he didn't even ask what had happened; because maybe he'd already worked everything out. And maybe it just _felt right_, and maybe she didn't want to let go.

In the kitchen she pulled her hand out of his (_you're feeling disappointment in yourself for letting this happen in the first place; _not _reluctance_), smiled and heard herself say, "I can take it from here, Baywatch." Artemis felt herself go through the motions of cleaning a wound, examining the abrasion as she did. It wasn't all that deep, but it did stretch wickedly halfway across her palm.

In the time it took Artemis to realize it was virtually impossible to bandage herself up with one hand, Wally dashed off to find the Cave's first aid box, returned triumphantly with it, unpacked a small roll of disinfected cloth and cut out a neat square of clean gauze. Then stood back to watch her imminent valiant efforts.

He had to hand it to her. The girl was stubborn. Pinning a length of cloth down with the back of her hand and maneuvering the gauze and the remainder of the cloth with fingers clearly agile from handling a bow so often.

Victory was almost hers, too, till her pinky slipped and the whole thing unraveled in a most elegant fashion.

Wally let out something between a snort and a chuckle. "Need help?"

"No," Artemis replied mock-curtly, and perched herself on a chair at the kitchen counter, holding out her injured hand expectantly. A smile tugged at the corner of the speedster's lips as he stepped forward and pulled the cloth entirely off her hand.

She watched his hands guardedly as they wound the cloth once over her palm with quick, efficient movements. He looked up and she glanced away immediately — directly at the sai she had left on the counter. The speedster followed her gaze.

"Don't ask," she said abruptly, without looking at him. "I wouldn't—"Artemis let out a hiss and pulled back her hand as the pressure on the abrasion rose.

"Sorry," Wally immediately said, and she felt her hand, unbidden, return to its original position. His bandaging movements became purposeful yet gentle; she would never admit it, but for a moment his fingers were practically _tiptoeing_ across her skin, as if afraid to hurt her.

Again, at least.

"Remember," Wally said, without once losing concentration, "when Klarion and his little advanced science buddies—"

"Magicians—"

"—came and temporarily generated a space-time paradox with the whole adults-and-children-in-separate-dimensions thing?"

"Of course." Unconsciously, Artemis cast a glance beyond Wally, her mind extrapolating what she couldn't see at this range: the door to Zatanna's room at the Cave. The Cave, the only place the young magician could call home now. Wally waited till he felt her attention return to him before continuing.

"Remember how you did your cute little nursery rhyme remix?"

_Artemis's voice carries across the short distance between them. "Twinkle, twinkle little star..."_

_Wally has seen countless people's 'baby-faces', but hers is the most friendly, the most erudite and caring._

"_Um... Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full."_

_As the crowd of kids around her bursts out laughing, Artemis stands and turns to greet them._

"_Oh, for me? Thank you," she just catches Wally saying, holding a sippy cup and smiling. He looks unnaturally, well, natural holding the black-haired tyke._

She could feel her face flushing at the memory, but decided to ignore it and pray that Wally had the tact to do the same. "Yes," Artemis replied gamely. The knuckles on her uninjured hand went a little white as she clenched it. An unconscious tensing that said _One more badly-considered word and you're dead._

"_Did you call home?" the archer asks worriedly. _

"_No answer." His smile falls slightly, and she watches sadly as he makes an effort to brighten up in front of the kids. "You could Zeta there," she suggests, wanting to help him mean the smile. Right now it doesn't reach his eyes._

"_I've been collecting kids all day. I don't need to see another empty house."_

"I liked it," Wally told her, honestly, and it would have been lying to say that his voice didn't make her quiver a little. 'A little' meaning the happiness was practically bubbling up inside of her, warm and reassuring and sweet and feeling somehow golden. Golden as in special. Special as in safe, protected. Special because he'd been the one defending her, for once, not the one throwing jibes around. Tonight he'd been the only one she hadn't had to fight. _At first, _she corrected herself grudgingly.

"All done," Wally interrupted her thoughts, showing no sign of having noticed her ruminant silence. His right hand lingered on hers as his left fumbled with a metal fastener.

"Thanks. And hey. I had to do _something _to keep the kids happy."

Wally watched as she pulled her hand not-too-gently from his and crossed her arms over her chest, either protectively or defiantly — or both.

"Have you heard 'Soft Kitty'?" he asked, still gazing at her injured hand. _Right hand. _Her master hand, the one that nocked each arrow at just the right position and angle. Controlling magnitude by determining tension in the string. Several formulae materialized in his head, all with their own variables, most of them interdependent.

Naturally the irony of how Artemis's training bested all his complex calculations, of how Artemis herself sometimes made him throw logic out the window, never occurred to him.

Alright, maybe it did. Sometimes. And only in little... inklings. Yeah. Inklings.

"No," the archer responded, forcing a tinge of exasperation into her voice although her curiosity was piqued. "What does that have to do with anything?"

So sure of herself, so confident in her challenging tone. The same way she'd sounded when she'd dismissed what she dubbed his 'denial' of the existence of magic. Because maybe she'd effected enough wondrous rescues, pulled off enough impossible missions, to acknowledge that _some_ sort of invisible force was at work.

Maybe she'd seen enough heartbreak and tragedy to _have_ to believe, intuitively, that magic existed, and some miracle would come one day, to save her.

"You know — 'soft kitty, warm kitty'?" Wally tested her. "'Little ball of fur'?" He met her eyes, seeing some sort of recognition in them. "Don't tell me you don't know 'Soft Kitty.'" _You _do _know it_, his green eyes accused her teasingly.

"I–it's for when you're sick," she commented dismissively, speaking quickly. "And I'm not much of a cat person anyway."

"You're sick of pretending," he offered, and she stiffened.

"So are you."

"Oh really. How am _I _sick of pretending?"

"Well," Artemis began, her voice wavering. _This is what happens when you blurt out comebacks you haven't thought through. _Now that Wally was watching her, bemused, waiting to hear her improvised jibe, she tucked a lock of stray hair behind her ear. _Just a tinge too self-consciously_, the speedster noted. _Left index finger and thumb_, he added as an afterthought. Left — closer to her heart, her core.

Scientifically speaking, naturally.

"You and all your _souvenirs_," Artemis continued, surprising herself when the last word came out almost as a sneer. "Crazy stuff goes down, we all risk our lives, have too many close calls, and you use this whole souvenir business to make sure you're the first to rebound."

If there was a hint of a smile on his face previously, it was gone now.

"Hang on, that isn't fair—"

"Am I _right_?" Artemis demanded. The anger in his eyes matched the ire in hers. For a moment Wally seemed about to contradict her, but then he checked himself, and silently slid off his chair to stride briskly away.

A burst of indignance. The archer followed suit, jogging a little to catch up to him in the hallway. "What, now that I've guessed your little _charade _you get all upset and just _walk away_?"

The speedster stopped walking so abruptly that she almost rammed into him. Wally turned to face her. His face was lit faintly by the kitchen lights; the darkness beyond him made the barely suppressed infuriation in his visage stand out all the more. "How can you take a _perfectly_ good peace offering, and — and with one word,_ one word, _make me—" He broke off into a frustrated sound that could best be described as an 'aaauuuuuugh'.

Artemis had frozen in place at his sudden outburst, and watched silently as Wally gazed askance and slowed his aggravated breathing. Finally he looked up at her. "Just tell me one thing," he said, agonizingly slowly. "Everything I said, on the Bioship. Did that mean... _anything, _to you?"

She was silent again. _I say yes, he asks, "Then why did you go off on your own anyway?" And I have no answer, because answering would equal bye-bye, secret ID — and possibly any trust he had in me._

Wally continued watching her for an answer.

_I say no, he continues to think I'm a selfish idiot and that I'm rejecting his— his what? Acceptance? Trust? _

Her mind hit the emergency brake on the last, four-letter word that came to mind. _"But you," _he'd said, with that insanely irritating yet completely sincere stress on the _you, "You've made your own place on the team. You've nothing to prove. Not to me. 'Kay?"_

"You know what, don't answer that," Wally was saying. "Come on." He took a few steps backwards and a moment later found the light switch in his souvenir room. Wordlessly Artemis did as instructed.

She hadn't been inside this place since the Reds had taken over the Cave, when she had chanced everything upon one arrow and — thankfully — succeeded. By now the shelves were lined with quite a number more items. A sippy cup, a donor heart medical bag. A _Hello Megan _video tape. And most recently — the tracer she herself had planted just that evening.

Wally was commentating to himself. "You look at all this stuff, and if you weren't there... you might call it junk." He paused to carefully dust off the medical bag, and left his hand there even after scrutinizing it for invisible scratches. "But I look at this and remember running through the snow, and Vertigo telling me I was too late...

"And the look on his face when Perdita sort of came back from the dead on him." A chuckle. "You were right, earlier," Wally mused to himself. "But not completely." His voice was so soft and low and gentle that she almost thought she'd imagined the words completely.

Even as Artemis made the realization, she voiced it. "You keep these souvenirs to know... to know you made a difference." Wally nodded and she averted her gaze from the tracer, her mind simultaneously going back to the sai that was still on the kitchen counter.

"It might seem really..." the speedster began hesitantly, then cleared his throat and continued more firmly, "dumb, but... when the stakes are the fate of the whole world, it's too easy to forget how important... _one person_ is."

Raising an eyebrow, Artemis waited for him to snap out of it. He didn't.

"I guess in the grand scheme of things, you tend to overlook what's right in front of you." He wasn't looking at her anymore, moving his gaze over to the empty spot where the Helmet of Fate had been. "A souvenir's a reminder to never see the reigning queen of a powerful nation — just the little girl who needs help."

A pause. "And now I'm getting sappy."

"Why are you telling me all this?"

_Tired, tired. Too tired of lying to you, Wally. Too tired to sort this all out._

She anticipated his shrug possibly even before the thought had crossed his mind. "And don't you _dare_ give me some monosyllabic non-answer."

It was only when Wally finally met her gaze that she picked up on the rueful look in his eyes, the nuance she'd missed earlier because it had been hiding behind all that misplaced anger. "Because I still trust you. I just — need you to know that."

_Because you're the little girl who likes to pretend she's all grown-up and doesn't need anyone's reassurance. _

"And don't ask 'What's that supposed to mean?' I know you're going to," Wally continued. Artemis stopped with that exact question on the tip of her tongue, and watched silently as her companion rubbed his hands together, interlacing his fingers nervously.

_It means I finally realized that it's probably my fault that you started to believe you were second-rate-Red-Arrow-_replacement_-material to begin with._

Abruptly the speedster straightened up to his full height. Formal, stiff. Too much in control to ever seem natural. _It means you're supposed to be the angry one but I blew it and now you probably think I hate you when that couldn't be further from the truth._

"'Night, Artemis," he said quietly. Eyes darting to her then back to his souvenir cabinet, where they lingered.

_It means I won't ever do that to you again. Artemis, it means I'm sorry._

She would never know it, but the moment she'd disappeared down the hallway, numbly disappointed, Wally had turned, to watch her leave.

* * *

**Yes, I am aware that there are now liquid bandages for minor abrasions. No, I don't think spraying chemicals is particularly fluff-conducive. Although Soft Kitty is. It's also a legit song, FYI. **

**I'm rather insecure myself when I write, so please leave a review telling me how I can improve, what you liked or hated.**

**For me _Insecurity _was a crossroads for Wally and Artemis's relationship. I thought the sweetest thing about it was how much it focused on friendship and trust. I hope I managed to convey how they are mutually supportive, without compensating on their clear differences.**

**m.e.**


End file.
